For some reason, after the tanks, the lights of Berlin never seemed to shine quite as brightly.

He staggered away from the Wall, away from the order, away from the noise and the command and the pounding pain inside his head. He wandered the streets, because nobody had stopped him from leaving the base, nobody would have stopped the war that would have raged in this burned place, licking across the oil-spill seas and to the wild of home. Matthew felt claustrophobic in his own skin, trapped in range of guns and fire. If Canada wasn't safe for him, nowhere was.

It had only ever been a matter of where was safer, and here, it was surrounded by Francis' poems and his words and the weight of his memory. Here, the Wall drew back long enough to breathe. Here, Matthew watched the moonlight slide down the paint on the wall and stain stone and ink the same silver before he slept.

0o0o0o

Francis ran along the Wall, close enough to reach out and skim his fingers across the murals that bloomed like flowers with petals made of thick paint. The tanks rumbled already, looming and dark, and the sound and the shadows sent stabs of icy fear down his spine. He knew the feeling from the war, and he felt young and terrified again, but there was a hard core of anger that made him keep walking. The world had enough war and hate in it, and as long as Francis was alive, he'd take up the uniform of art to make sure people like Matthew didn't pull the trigger to start another country aflame.

The concrete checkpoint gave way to steel and a heavy door. Francis shouldered through and gazed at the men inside, who jumped to attention, guns out, British uniforms still crooked around the edges. They weren't soldiers any more than Matthew was, and Francis felt no hate for them, only sadness.

'He said nobody would cross,' one muttered, looking him up and down in the wary way that one would to judge an unfamiliar animal, like he was checking for spines or teeth. Francis could have laughed, but he drew himself up and cast a glance across them.

'I'm not trying to cross. I am looking for a Canadian soldier named Matthew Williams. He's a tank gunner.'

The soldiers looked like that was even worse than attempting to cross. Their guns were at least lowered, and one leaned forward, eyebrows crinkled sympathetically.

'We can't access the tanks,' he said. 'Chasing after a single Canadian soldier when they're half a guess from firing is mad.'

'It's what I have to do,' Francis insisted. 'He's important to me.'

'We all have people like that,' one said, with straighter shoulders than the rest. 'But you can't do him any favours by making yourself the target they'll start the war on. Go home.'

'What about you?' Francis asked, even though he knew it was pointless. 'What if you die here?'

'We try not to,' one said softly. 'But it's not our choice.'

It never had been. Francis let himself be escorted out and wandered the empty streets like a ghost, wondering if this would be the last. It felt wrong that he could not do anything against the possibility of war. The world was still too close to the iron grip of real war, harsher occupation, worse for everyone.

The sky forgot to notice when the nukes weren't dropped, the faint moon forgot to shine brighter and the wind forgot not to gust. The only things that began to live again when their own petty challenges had backed down were the people who came out to watch the sun again, blinking in the light, the same grey as before. Francis needed Matthew and his soft colours, his untainted memories of the wild. If the world stayed the same and only the weapons of rage changed, he wanted to see them through lavender and honey curls more than anything else.

Matthew was sleeping on his table when he came in, the door gently closed behind him. Francis sat down at the table with him, taking in the shadows in his hollow cheeks and under his sunken eyes. He still remembered what he'd looked like smiling, and laughing momentarily, but the idea of more than that, of Matthew laughing without wondering who would think of him, felt impossible now. There was only the stars and the glass warping silver and them, here. Francis made to rise, but when the metal chair creaked, Matthew shifted, eyes shocking open wide, gleaming pale and reflective with tears. His throat felt thick. Matthew must have had a nightmare that was nothing more than fresh memory, and the knowledge hovered between them, unvoiced until Matthew gasped, a heart-wrenching, choking noise, and buried his face back into his arms.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured, and Francis' heart broke all over again for everything of him.

'It's okay,' he said, even though it wasn't. Matthew let him raise his head from the curl of his arms and trace lines across his face. 'You fell asleep in your glasses?' he added sadly.

Matthew laughed, blankly, emptily, and allowed him to pull them off and fold them, blinking wide-eyed and blurry. Francis carefully cradled his face and the red mark left where he'd slept on the table and ached for this tenderness.

'It's not okay, is it?' Matthew said, eyes half-lidded. 'Francis, I could have started the war.'

'You didn't,' Francis said firmly.

Matthew turned to him, looking shattered. 'What if I had?'

If he had? They would be dead. Everything here, every smear of paint and curl of paper would be reduced to ash. They'd be trapped in metal and concrete as the city vaporized.

Matthew read him, knew his hesitation and smiled sadly before it slid down his face and crumpled.

'I can't kill like that.'

'I know.' He stroked his hair. 'You never should have been forced to try.'

'I've never met anyone who-' Matthew yawned. '-who knows what war is like and wants to go back.'

Francis was about to agree until he remembered Gilbert, how he'd never really left battle, all steel and bared teeth. He bit the words back and held them in his throat, where they prickled. 'Good.'

'Do you think I'm a coward?'

Francis looked down at him, horrified. 'No. No, you're brave. Braver than many.'

'Oh.' Matthew's gaze slid across him, unfocused with sleep. 'Why?'

'I told you. You're gentle.' Francis tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. 'I'd rather be gentle than cruel.'

His mouth turned into a small smile. 'I'm glad. Glad you're...with me.'

'Always,' Francis breathed. The curls of his hair were spilled out across the table, and Francis ran his hand through them.

Matthew was more than half-asleep now, and Francis shook himself away and helped him up.

'What are you…' Matthew yawned again. 'Why?'

'You're going to bed,' Francis said firmly, leading him down the street to the apartment.

'Camp's back there.'

'You're too tired for camp,' Francis said, pushing down the shade of guilt at his own feelings, that he just wanted to be near Matthew, feel physical warmth and pressure of sleep and nothing more. Luckily or unluckily, he didn't protest again, and he finally made it up the stairs and collapsed on the bed. Francis tugged his uniform jacket off, electing to leave the trousers on. The moonlight was turning rosy, and he wandered the tiny apartment for a timeless pause, arranging his things as if it was only a regular night. The sun would still rise just as beautifully in a few hours, regardless of planes with nukes or soldiers.

When he settled on his couch with a blanket he'd scrounged up, a hand found the sleeve of his sleep shirt. Francis froze.

'Matthew,' he warned, more for himself than him. The grip tightened, and he found more lucid, alert eyes. He was propped up on one elbow like he'd been watching.

'You wanted me to stay,' he said. Sleep hovered around his expression and the slack ease of his movements, but he was awake. Matthew slid out of bed, and his thin undershirt caught on the thin blankets, exposing the smooth planes of his torso, the muscles interrupted by the moose scar, and the surprising definition of his back. Francis knew he couldn't take his eyes off it, and so did Matthew. He could see it in the gleam of his eyes.

'I did,' he said, as if through a veil. Matthew held out his hand, and Francis stared.

'Come here,' Matthew said, somehow like a plead and a command all at once. Francis couldn't say no. He never could, and slipped into his small bed beside him. Matthew was all awkward limbs and gentle angles growing into their lengths, and Francis could see clear as day the unsure glint in his gaze beyond the new boldness. Francis gathered him close, easing them into the newness until they could both fit together on the small mattress, tangled limbs and heads resting in the crooks of each others' shoulders. Heat radiated between them.

'You've never kissed me properly.' Matthew swallowed, the knob of his throat moving. Here, Francis could appreciate how tall he really was, how beautiful every part of him seemed to be, and God, he wanted to, had always wanted to, but he held onto himself.

'Do you want me to?'

His hesitant expression contorted in an incredulous near-giggle for a second, and Francis had to take a deep breath to stop from breaking his resolve right then. 'What kind of a question is that?'

'Tell me, Matthew,' Francis said, surprised at the huskiness of his own voice. The humour drained from his eyes.

'I want you to kiss me.' He raised his head, pale eyes blazing and intense. 'I think...I have wanted to kiss you for a long time.'

'Matthew.' He couldn't breathe, just focus on the shape of his mouth, trying to memorize this. 'My dearest.' You masterpiece.

'Francis.' He smiled and the monotone grey even the tanks had not been able to break melted away. Francis felt his hands sliding into his hair and pulling him down, and then the gentle press of mouth to mouth. For a moment, they rocked together and Francis existed only in the soft gasp Matthew made and the taste of maple on his tongue.

He never wanted to stop, but he had to or he'd go too far. When he broke away, Matthew made a frustrated, needing groan that made Francis almost reconsider. He held them both back, forcing himself not to ruin them both too fast.

'You're tired. Tomorrow,' he said, silencing Matthew's protests. 'Tomorrow, if you liked it.'

'Tomorrow,' Matthew echoed fiercely. Francis wondered if he understood that he would break apart if he didn't at least stop now, what everything this was would do to them. He thought he did.

Francis kissed his forehead one last time and waited until even his sparking intensity had faded to sleep to slip away to the couch and dream his own memories before sleeping.

0o0o0o

The morning dawned gauzy and Matthew laid in bed blinking before it rushed back. The nightmares of tanks and the dreams of having Francis, both impossible things that had happened in this city.

'Are you awake?'

Matthew pushed himself up on an elbow, squinting into the pale darkness. 'Yes.'

His expression was draped in shadow and fondness. 'You have to go back to camp soon.'

His heart sank, wondering for a moment if the wonderful memory of kissing Francis was only a dream. Francis sat forward and pulled him to standing, swaying in the glowing living room in the early morning.

'I promised you, did I not?' he asked, smiling. He nodded, and his expression grew serious. 'Matthew.' Francis was looking at him, alert and almost nervous. It was strange to see him nervous, when Matthew was buzzing and hyper-aware of how awkward he must be compared to Francis. He wanted him.

'Yes?'

'Have you heard of what they call the 'little death'?'

Matthew tried to remember, and his face flushed. Francis' expression softened for a moment.

'Yes.'

'Good.' Francis crossed to him, and cupped his face in his hands. His kiss was gentle, nearly chaste. Matthew pulled away, itching with heat and want and memory of last night. They'd kissed better for a perfect moment before they'd had to stop.

'You shouldn't talk to me of little deaths and then kiss me like that.'

Francis looked amused, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. 'How should I?'

Matthew leaned forward and kissed him firmly. Francis tasted more like sweet smoke, and this time, he didn't stop them.

0o0o0o

:: Wooden platforms overgrown with wildflowers